Page 53

Ari sets down her guitar and darts upstairs. When she comes back, she gives me an affirmative nod. “He’s ordering pizza. No seafood involved.”

I give her a thumbs-up. “So, are you excited to work at the record store?”

She gives a small squeal. “Are you kidding? It’s my dream job! Well, my dream summer job, anyway. I start next week.”

“Better you than me.”

She lifts the needle on the record player. “Speaking of dream jobs, did you know that Elton John didn’t write his own lyrics? He did the music, but the words were almost entirely written by a guy named Bernie Taupin. Can you imagine? I want to be himso bad.”

She starts the song again, but she doesn’t pick up her guitar this time. Instead, she lies down on the floor and shuts her eyes, her face tense with concentration. The flute introduction plays and is soon joined by a keyboard and Elton’s sorrowful voice.

“Listen to this,” says Ari, her fingers dancing through the air.I can see the red taillights heading for Spain…She throws her hand upward, mirroring the rise in the music, then brings her hand back down in a giddy fist. “There! Did you hear that E-seven? A non-diatonic dominant chord, but then it resolves straight to the A minor. Brilliant. Honestly, piano players write the best chords.” She presses both palms against her forehead and sighs heavily.

I have literally zero idea what she’s talking about.

“Maybe I should take up the piano,” she says.

“I have a keyboard you could have.”

She turns her head to look at me. “Really?”

“Sure. It’s in our living room, abandoned and unloved. You can totally have it. I mean, it’s not super-high quality. Probably your mom could buy you something way nicer, but if you want it…”

Ari grimaces. She hates it when anyone mentions her family’s affluence, which I guess I can sort of understand. She doesn’t want to be judged for having money any more than I want to be judged fornothaving it.

“I would love to have it. Thank you,” she says. “And I promise to take very good care of it. Now, shush, listen. This part—”

Elton sings about the scars that won’t heal, about the eyes that have died. Ari looks positively euphoric as both hands shoot upward again, pointing at the ceiling.Daniel, you’re a star…

“Oh,” she croons wistfully. “Listen to that high note! He’s hitting the tonic note over a modal interchange chord. So simple, yet so brilliant. It’s just…” She sighs, dropping her hands down to her heart. She starts to sing along, but I can barely hear her over the album.

Honestly, I find these music-theory riffs of hers brilliant, but she seems like she’s speaking another language entirely. One I definitely do not speak. Her music descriptions are even harder to understand than the rapid Spanish she speaks with her family, because with music, she expects me to sort of understand what she’s talking about. At least I havesomerudimentary knowledgeof Spanish, having taken it for three years in school, but all I remember from piano lessons is how to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” (With feeling.)

As Elton drones on, my mind wanders again. To ecotourism. To the rescue center.

To Quint Erickson and his mom and how they need more staff and how dingy the building was.

What the center needs to do is stop acting like a nonprofit focused on helping poor stranded animals, and start acting like a business. It needs someone with vision. Someone who can help them be profitable. Well, profitable for a nonprofit, at least. If that makes sense. I don’t know, it doesn’t matter, because my wheels are turning, and it seems suddenly clear that…

What the center needs is someone likeme.

“That’s it!” I sit up suddenly and look at Ari. “Ecotourism! I can… I…” I frown. “Are you crying?”

Ari, embarrassed at being found out, swipes the tears from her cheeks. “No,” she says. Then sniffs. Then, “Yes! I can’t help it! It’s just sosad.”

I listen to the song as the final verse plays.

Oh God, it looks like Daniel. Must be the clouds in my eyes.

I shrug. “Who the heck is Daniel?”

Ari starts to laugh. “I have no idea!”

I groan and stand up to shut off the record player, just as the last melody plays on the flute. “So, the whole time Quint and I were working on that project for biology, he kept talking about this animal rescue center. Well, I think he maybe had a point. What if the center could become a huge draw for tourists? They might even be able to make some money! I mean, they’d still be a nonprofit, but some nonprofit CEOs are, like, millionaires. Not that this is about money. But I’m just saying. I could take what I learned doing that stupid report and… and what if Irescuedthe rescue center?”

Ari sits up and blinks at me. Her cheeks are tinted pink, but the rush of emotions brought on by the song seem to be fading. “I’m sorry. What are you doing?”

“I’m going to come up with a business plan! For the rescue center!”